


an endless road (to rediscover)

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Intimacy, Lazy Sex, M/M, Mild Somnophilia, Misunderstandings, Pack Dynamics, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you and Scott are together,” Derek says, evenly.<br/>“What?” Stiles says. “It’s not— it’s not like that, okay, Scott and I are not <i>together</i>, I—” Stiles rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand, fingers crooked like the impatient little smile that flashes across his face. “It’s going to be really weird for you if I say ‘we’re so close he feels like a part of me’ now, isn’t it?”<br/>Derek says, “So having sex with Scott is like masturbating to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	an endless road (to rediscover)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [an endless road (to rediscover)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11742906) by [linbene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linbene/pseuds/linbene)



> Alternate summary: “scott and stiles are these uber-intense symbiotic best friends with benefits and derek is angsting in a corner somewhere because he was secure in his sexuality until he started thinking about stiles touching scott’s dick on a daily basis”. A character and character dynamics study which is equal parts friendship porn, experimental writing therapy, and fix-it fic/denial of the direction in which canon is currently heading.

Derek can’t remember exactly when or why it came up in the first place. He can vaguely remember the conversation, or rather Stiles’ throwaway comment, taking place at his loft, so it must have come up during a meeting somehow. One of their first Friday night meetings, it must have been, because Derek remembers feeling content and something else— something bordering uncharacteristically close on excitement.

Yeah, he remembers now, remembers Stiles leaning back on the couch and laughing at something somebody (Kira?) has asked him. Laughing in that obnoxious, unapologetic, full-body head-thrown-back way of his, and then going, “Of _course_ I’ve made out with a dude, dude.”

He remembers Stiles’ laugh fading down to a loose, smug smile, eyes still alight with private amusement. The way those eyes cut to Scott’s for a second. Derek remembers Scott smiling back at Stiles, softly, indulgently.

He remembers biting down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile along.

 

* * *

 

It’s not a big deal.

That’s the thing about their friendship: nothing is ever a big deal.

Scott, four years old, decides ten minutes into their first ever sleepover that he wants to go home after all because he brought the wrong teddy bear and he misses his mom, and it’s no big deal. Stiles, seven years old, breaks his wrist jumping off the swings and Scott, also seven years old, lies for him to their parents about how it happened, and it’s no big deal.

Scott, sixteen years old, gets bitten by a werewolf, and it’s no big deal.

Stiles, sixteen and then seventeen years old, gets possessed by a nogitsune, and it’s kind of a big deal for a while except Scott’s right there when it’s all over, clutching his upper arm and stroking his hair and crying and saying, “It’s all right, buddy. It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and— well.

 

It really is no big deal.

Stiles, fourteen years old, wakes up in the middle of the night to a sound he knows well, interspersed with the unfamiliar yet thrilling sound of his best friend choking back moans, and it’s no big deal.

Scott and Stiles, both fifteen years old, end up watching porn together because _Iron Man_ wouldn’t load and Stiles half-jokingly opened this file just to see how Scott would react, and it’s no big deal.

Stiles, fifteen years old, swallows and says, “I wonder— I wonder what it’d be like if…”

And Scott, fifteen years old, looks over at him and says, “You wanna?”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes they jerk off alone; sometimes they jerk off together. Sometimes they jerk off each other, slouched back on one of their beds with their thighs touching, laptop playing idly on the nightstand.

Sometimes, when one of them is crashing at the other’s place, right before they go to sleep one of them goes, “Hey, dude, I really need to…” and the other rolls over to help out or just watches, pushed up onto one elbow, casually stroking himself under the covers. Watching each other, their faces lax and open in the moonlight.

Sometimes they rub off against each other, and Stiles likes that a lot. He likes the way Scott smells. He may not have the enhanced senses of a werewolf but with Scott’s narrow hips anchored between his legs and their lower bodies stuttering together, one of Scott’s hands curved tight around the back of his neck, Stiles can smell him all right. A warm, grounding smell of clean sweat and comfort as Scott rubs off into the crease of Stiles’ hipbone with quiet gasps.

Stiles remembers the nogitsune, remembers the way it made him feel like there was a smudged glass pane barricading him off from the rest of the world. The way it made everything seem like a low-quality movie download with the sound turned down. He remembers that and presses the bridge of his nose to Scott’s shoulder and drinks in the smell, the noises, pulls Scott closer to feel the vibrations of his moans, the feel of Scott’s smile open-mouthed against his skin.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is different since the Nemeton. His face is thinner, even though his body has filled out and girls have started to notice him, in the hallways, elbowing each other and whispering eagerly (“Stilinski grew up well, didn’t he?”). He’s— not quieter, exactly, but sharper. His heartbeat has a frail, bitter edge to it. He looks tired often.

Scott says, “You all right, buddy?”

Stiles says, “Yeah, yeah.”

(The girls are wrong; Stiles didn’t grow up well, not at all, he grew up too fast once at the age of eight, and now again at the age of seventeen.)

Stiles passes a hand across his eyes, looks at Scott. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

“Do you wanna go home?”

Isaac, on the other end of their lunch table, looks over at them for a long second, then back at Allison.

Stiles shrugs and says, more quietly, “We’re halfway through the school day. I can manage.”

“Are you sure? ’Cause I can call your dad, you know he won’t—”

“Scott,” Stiles says, carefully placing his fork on his tray. “I said I can manage.”

His voice sounds tight but he presses his leg to Scott’s under the table, briefly. Scott touches it, squeezes Stiles’ kneecap, decides spontaneously to go home with him this afternoon, if Stiles wants him to.

Stiles wants him to.

Scott stays downstairs to boil water for tea. When he gets to Stiles’ room, Stiles has changed into sweatpants and a loose, faded T-shirt. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed with his laptop in front of him, doesn’t look up when Scott comes in, just scoots over.

“What are you working on?” Scott asks, putting their mugs down on the nightstand and crawling onto the bed.

“History essay,” Stiles says. “Finishing touches. Yukimura gave me an extension. Awesome guy. Wanna read?”

He gives the laptop a little nudge so it’s turned to Scott and then unfolds his legs and lies down with one of his arms under his head. _He grew up well_ , echoes through Scott’s mind as he looks at the way Stiles’ biceps strains against the fabric of his shirt, the faint dusting of stubble on his chin.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks, his other hand touching the small of Scott’s back.

“Nothing,” Scott says. The laptop screen has dimmed; he flicks the touchpad, makes it light up again. Stiles’ hand stays on his back, fingers brushing gently back and forth. It’s warm in the room. Stiles breathes evenly behind him. On the other end of the hallway, the washing machine is rumbling and thumping, a homely background noise to the afternoon quiet of the house.

“It’s good,” Scott says when he’s finished reading. He saves the file and closes the lid. “He’ll like it.” He puts the laptop down on the floor next to the bed and turns to the long slender line of Stiles’ body. Stiles’ shirt has ridden up on his stomach and Scott touches the strip of skin that’s visible, buries his fingertips in the soft little trail of hair Stiles feels self-conscious about for some unfathomable reason. Stiles’ stomach dips beneath his palm.

“Have any ulterior motives for accompanying me home today, by any chance?” Stiles asks lazily. He’s watching Scott from beneath his eyelashes. “If you wanted to have sex you could’ve just said so.”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Scott says, keeping a straight face, and then, more seriously, “I’m just trying to take care of you.”

“Oh, feel free to _take care_ of me, all right,” Stiles says, grinning, and Scott cups him through his sweatpants, feels for the outline of Stiles’ dick with his thumb and forefinger.

Stiles sighs and shifts a little. His dick is starting to stir against Scott’s palm. “Might fall asleep on you,” he mumbles, trailing his fingers along Scott’s wrist. “Just so you know.”

“Fine by me. I’ll just jerk off onto you.” Scott twists so he’s straddling Stiles’ thigh, kneeling over him, his forearm braced next to Stiles’ head. He figures he’s just about stroked Stiles to full hardness, so— “Lift up?”

“That’s gross,” Stiles says belatedly, lifting his hips and helping Scott push his pants and underwear down, past their knees. “But weirdly hot, too.” His dick slaps against his stomach, and he bites down on his bottom lip, shifting again to get more comfortable. “God, I feel so lazy.”

“It’s fine,” Scott says. “Just relax.” He leans down to inhale Stiles’ scent, takes Stiles’ dick in his hand, squeezes. “Dude, you’re pretty dry.”

“Well excuse me for not magically acquiring the ability to self-lubricate. You know where to find the stuff.”

“Lazy as hell,” Scott mutters as he reaches for the nightstand.

“You love me for it,” Stiles says, his eyes slipping shut and his lips parting when Scott drizzles lube onto his dick and starts massaging it into the skin with attentive, deliberate strokes.

“Maybe,” Scott says, and Stiles moans softly in response.

Afterward, once he’s come, Stiles rolls onto his stomach and clenches his thighs together so Scott can rub off between them, the head of his dick nudging against Stiles’ balls with every thrust, everything hot and tight but slick with come and lube. Scott observes the line of Stiles’ jaw, the sprinkling of moles on the side of his neck, the jut of his nose, those long dark eyelashes. He presses his forehead to the sweaty nape of Stiles’ neck and thrusts harder, Stiles sleepily murmuring encouragements into the pillow.

Their tea has gone cold. “Gross, dude,” Stiles says, putting his mug back down. “I can’t drink this. What kind of caregiver are you? I’m telling Melissa.”

Scott takes Stiles into a headlock until he starts squirming and laughing, then goes to find washcloths to clean them both up. By the time he’s started up the PlayStation, Stiles is already fast asleep beside him.

 

* * *

 

On Friday, first period gets canceled because their Math teacher called in sick. Stiles drives to Scott’s house and takes the stairs by two, finding Scott still in bed.

“Dude,” he says, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket at the same time. “Wake up.”

Scott is lying face down with his arms hooked around his pillow. He turns his head away, to the wall, and groans.

“Where’s Isaac?” Stiles asks. “He still here?” He drops his jacket to the floor, on top of his backpack, and moves over to the bed, swooping in under the covers next to Scott.

Scott goes, “Mmmh?”

“Where’s Isaac,” Stiles repeats, running both his hands down the naked length of Scott’s back until he reaches the elastic band of his underwear. Scott shivers under his touch.

“Your hands are cold,” he mutters. “He already left for school.”

Stiles obligingly removes his hands from Scott’s back and puts them between his own thighs. He hooks his chin around Scott’s upper arm. “Good. What about your mom?”

“Work.”

“Even better. So we’re all alone.”

Scott hums affirmatively. He smells good; sleep and musk and warm skin. Stiles pushes his face into the space between Scott’s shoulder blades, breathes in. “You awake yet?”

“Almost,” Scott murmurs. “Gimme a second.”

Stiles touches Scott’s shoulder. Scott doesn’t shiver this time, so he continues, feels his way down to the dip of Scott’s spine just above his ass, stops there. “Dude, your back muscles are unreal. No fair.”

Scott murmurs something else.

“What was that?” Stiles lets his hand slide forward, curve around Scott’s side. Scott makes another sleepy sound and unwraps one of his arms from the pillow, takes hold of Stiles’ wrist, then his hand. Their fingers thread together for a second and then Scott shifts onto his side, pulling Stiles closer so they’re chest to back, the bulge of Stiles’ jeans resting snugly against Scott’s still-clothed ass.

“Yeah,” Scott mumbles, almost absent-mindedly moving their linked hands into his boxer shorts. He’s hard, the tip of his dick leaking. Stiles rubs his fingertips through the wetness, earning himself a short shuddery jerk of Scott’s hips, and then around the head, down the shaft. Scott’s hand loosely urges him on. When Stiles takes hold of Scott’s dick properly, Scott’s hand closes around his, and Scott lets a low, stifled moan slip. “Stiles,” he says then, increasing their pace. “Fuck.”

Stiles jerked off when he woke up this morning, but the way Scott is writhing back against him, breathing hard, his grip tightening around Stiles’ hand, it’s almost too much. Stiles cants his hips, nudges his hard-on against Scott’s ass. “You should probably come soon, buddy,” he says, making sure to keep his voice low in his throat, his mouth close to Scott’s ear. Scott shudders. “I just showered and you’re really starting to turn me on.”

“Oh,” Scott groans, “ _fuck_ ,” and then he stills and comes, pressing his face into the pillow.

Stiles continues stroking him until Scott makes the noise that means _too much_ , then wipes his hand on Scott’s boxer shorts, the bed sheets. “All right,” he says, sitting up. “You go take a shower, I’ll make breakfast.”

“One more minute.”

“I just gave you a fucking minute, dude. Come on, it’s Friday. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.” When Scott doesn’t move, he adds, “I’ll make pancakes.”

“Ugh,” Scott says, pushing up onto his elbows and shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Fine. You’re cruel, you know that?”

“If you’re not downstairs in twenty minutes I’ll eat yours. All of ’em.” Stiles ruffles Scott’s hair back into disarray and rolls out of the bed. “It’s Friday,” he yells over his shoulder as he leaves the room, for good measure.

 

* * *

 

Friday night is pack night.

Derek goes grocery shopping on Friday afternoons. He goes to the big store, two towns over, where there’s less risk of running into anyone he knows— or, worse, anyone who knows him. He loads up on fresh meat and quinoa and protein powder, but also on chips and soda, the flavor of Arizona green tea Lydia likes. Frozen pizzas, popcorn. Red wine for Allison. A single eight-pack of beer he’ll stash in the back of his fridge, under the vegetables, even though he knows Isaac will be able to sniff out its exact location as soon as someone – typically Stiles, sometimes Kira, rarely Scott – starts asking for it. A few hours from now his apartment will be bustling with teenagers.

He’s part of a pack again.

A true alpha, a human, a huntress, a banshee, a kitsune, a beta wolf. Two, if Derek counts himself. It’s not ideal; they all argue a lot, Isaac and Stiles most of all. Scott rolls his eyes about every other time Derek speaks and half the time they don’t even arrive at the point of their meetings, the reason they instated them in the first place— discussing the activity of the Nemeton, the actions of the twins, any potential Peter sightings. Keeping an eye on the town.

It’s all right, though. Kira tends to come armed with questions about obscure supernatural entities and phenomena Derek may or may not have heard of but usually has a book about somewhere. Deaton occasionally shows up, uninvited, to make cryptic statements and have a cup of tea he brewed from herbs he brought along himself, and then leave again. They often end up watching TV or a movie, or someone’ll suddenly remember they’ve still got a game lying in the backseat of their car. 30 Seconds, Twister.

It’s all right.

Derek’s part of a pack again.

 

* * *

 

That evening at Derek’s mostly follows the usual routine. When Scott gets to the loft, everyone is already there. Isaac opens the door for him before Scott can even knock; Stiles kind of half-waves from where he’s squeezed in-between Allison and Lydia on the couch, then continues whatever story he’s telling them. Allison seems vaguely amused but Lydia is side-eying him frostily and giving off waves of disdain, which means they must’ve already gotten into each other’s hair at least once tonight.

Like he said, the usual routine.

Derek is rummaging around in the fridge. “Hey,” he says to Scott without looking over his shoulder. “Scott. Kira couldn’t make it today, right?”

“Yeah, she’s got family night,” Scott says. “She said she might stop by later but we shouldn’t count on it.”

Derek opens the freezer door. “Did you eat already?”

Scott nods even though Derek can’t see him. “With my mom, at the hospital. I could go for dessert, though.”

“Good,” Derek says, tossing a tub of ice cream in his direction. “You know where to find the spoons.”

The ice cream is New York Super Fudge Chunk, Scott’s favorite flavor of Ben & Jerry’s, and while he digs into the overflowing utensil drawer Scott can’t help but think about how this past year Derek has managed to build himself back up at the same time as Stiles was being torn apart from the inside out. A wry coincidence. Stiles used to be the rock and Derek the dynamite, and now Scott’s not so sure what either of them are anymore. Both something in-between, he guesses, bringing three spoons with him into the living room area just in case.

Derek is leaning against the window sill with a mug of steaming coffee clasped between his palms. Allison has moved to the other couch and is now in the middle of some sort of semi-flirtatious discussion with Isaac, so Scott takes place between Lydia, who’s typing away on her phone, and Stiles. He pulls a pillow into his lap and balances the tub of Ben & Jerry’s on top of it.

“Ice cream!” Stiles says, wrenching one of the spoons from Scott’s grip. “Sweet, I love this flavor.”

“This is my favorite flavor,” Scott points out. “You love every flavor.”

“Yeah, but I really _really_ love this flavor,” Stiles says as he attempts to excavate a piece of white chocolate. He has to lean forward, really dig into it, and Scott is about to jokingly scold him for being unable to wait a few minutes while the ice cream softens when he catches a whiff of Stiles’ scent. Associative memory has his thoughts lurching back to this morning, the languorous hand job, being coaxed into full consciousness with Stiles curled all around him, his scent everywhere, and Scott thinks abruptly about how Stiles is still – will always be – his rock, even though Stiles may not feel or seem as strong as he used to be.

“What?” Stiles asks around his mouthful of ice cream. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Scott says. “You’re just kind of ridiculous, that’s all.”

He nudges their shoulders together. Stiles grins at him. When Scott looks away and to his other side, past Lydia, he catches sight of Derek, who’s still leaning against the windowsill, watching them with his arms folded across his chest and a guarded expression on his face.

 

* * *

 

“I think Derek’s figured it out,” Scott says. “Us, I mean. At the very least he’s suspecting something.”

“For real?” Stiles asks, unconcerned. He’s sticking out his tongue to catch a loose thread of melted cheese that’s dangling from his slice of pizza. Once he’s managed to get it into his mouth, using his fingers, he sucks in air like the food is too hot but closes his eyes, almost moans. “Fuck my _life_ , this tastes good. Holy shit.”

“For real, yeah,” Scott says. “And stop that, it’s obscene.”

Stiles smirks around his fingers, pulls them from his mouth with a wet pop. “My house my rules, bud. So do you think he’s, like, freaking out about it? About us?”

“I don’t know.” Scott leans back against the couch cushions, thinks about the way Derek looked at them last Friday, brow furrowed, the look in his eyes, a look Scott was and still is unable to decipher— not confusion or realization or apprehension but something else, something that ran deeper, much deeper, something that makes Scott’s chest thud dully when he thinks back to it. “I think he might be curious, actually. Maybe even jealous.”

Stiles snorts. “What, you think he wants to have sex with us? Wanna invite him over, send him a text? ‘Hey Derek, Stiles and I like to jerk each other off, feel like joining sometime? Hugs and kisses, Scott.’”

“God.” Scott wrinkles his nose. “That’d be so fucking weird. Like… like…”

“Like having sex with your own brother?”

“Stop,” Scott says, reaching out to prod Stiles’ side lightly. “Don’t even— you know it’s different between us. We’re different. Besides, I don’t think Derek wants to have sex with me.”

Stiles lets his eyebrows do a little wave that could mean a whole range of things but in this context means _his loss_ and/or _my gain_ , then tears into his slice of pizza again.

Scott says, “As in, I don’t think Derek wants to have sex with _me_.”

Stiles stops chewing. “Seriously?”

“I mean, I’m not sure, but. Yeah. Maybe. Yeah, I think so.”

“But he’s _Derek_ ,” Stiles says, swallowing his bite. “He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. He’s stubborn, and grumpy as fuck.”

Scott adds, “Good-looking, though.”

“And, like, achingly heterosexual,” Stiles continues. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says. “I’ve never really thought about it. Never asked him about it either.”

Stiles shoves the entire crust into his mouth and stretches out, lazily. He slouches back against the armrest of the couch and places his feet in Scott’s lap. “Well, I guess we’ll probably find out about that sooner or later. If he really has figured it out.”

“Your feet smell,” Scott says, but he curls his hand around one of them anyway.

 

* * *

 

They find out sooner, rather than later.

“Derek, I know for a fact you’ve still got at least one can of beer in here _somewhere_ ,” Stiles yells over his shoulder, jerking open the bottom drawer of the fridge. Derek buys an eight-pack every Friday, _every Friday_ , he’s sure of that, and he’ll be damned if—

“Looking for this?” Scott materializes, leaning back against the counter with a complacent little smile on his face. In his hand is the can of beer Stiles is, indeed, looking for.

“No way, dude,” Stiles says. He slams the fridge door shut. “That’s mine.”

“Don’t see your name on it.”

“You already had one!” Stiles says. “Scotty, please? Alcohol doesn’t even work for you, remember?” He reaches for the can, but Scott holds it farther away from him, smirking. Stiles drops the cute act. “Scott, this isn’t funny, give me the damn beer _now_.”

Scott shakes his head and says, “No.” His eyes are glittering; he’s enjoying this way too much.

Stiles decides on yet another alternative approach. “C’mon, man, I’ve had such a rough year, what with the nogitsune and all…”

“Oh, no,” Scott says, eyes widening. “Oh no no no. No way you’re playing _that_ card. No way.”

“I didn’t really sleep well last night, you know,” Stiles says softly. He hangs his head, pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs deeply. “I had this dream, well, it was more like a nightmare, actually—”

“This isn’t funny, you can’t seriously be using this to _guilt trip me into_ —”

“—woke up screaming, my dad—”

“Stiles!”

Scott’s face actually looks like it’s about to fall, so: “Ah, fuck it,” Stiles says, and Scott relaxes. “You do realize that by now the only reason I want the beer so badly is because you’re being difficult about it, right?”

Scott rolls his eyes. “I’ve known you for fourteen years. What do you think?”

“Just checking.” Stiles pushes away from the fridge, advances onto Scott. “Scott,” he says. “Scotty. C’mon. You’re my best friend.”

Scott doesn’t move or break their eye contact, just spreads his legs a little wider to accommodate Stiles stepping in-between them. Stiles rests his hands on Scott’s waist, slips one of his thumbs beneath Scott’s shirt to rub at the jut of his hipbone. “Please give me the beer?” he asks quietly, leaning in.

Scott’s cheeks dimple as his smirk widens. “Make me,” he says.

They don’t make out very often. In fact, Stiles can only recall a few of their kisses with clarity. One took place during a game of truth or dare, at fifteen, not too long before everything else between them started happening; another in Jungle, both of them a little light-headed with adrenaline and alcohol and the exhilarating sense of anonymity the crowded dance floor generated. Even when they’re having sex it’s usually not much more than shared gasps, wet slack-jawed collisions of mouths not much like kisses at all.

They’ve never really talked about it, but kissing would feel too intimate, probably, something reserved largely for actual romance, much like blowjobs; they’ve sucked each other off a couple of times, to see how it felt, and it felt good but it’s not a part of their— their _this_ , this thing between them, this thing of which only they will ever truly understand the logic, the boundaries, the depth.

Stiles throws all his expertise and persuasive power into this kiss, makes sure to nudge his nose up against Scott’s as their lips brush together, then slides his hand into place around Scott’s jaw and slowly starts to deepen the kiss, licks into Scott’s mouth, makes a soft noise as though he’s losing himself in it, in the moment, in Scott, and then…

“Gotcha,” Stiles says, triumphantly holding up the can of beer.

Scott is laughing, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. “Nice one. Although it’s not like I wasn’t planning on giving it to you anywa—”

His face freezes. Stiles follows his gaze, whips his head around to the doorway. He feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to his stomach when he sees Derek’s face.

“Fuck,” he says.

 

* * *

**Scott** : We need to talk to him

 **Stiles** : Derek?

 **Scott** : I think he’s upset.

 **Scott** : You need to go talk to him

 **Stiles** : Me?

 **Stiles** : Why me?

 **Stiles** : Last time I checked YOU were the alpha, dude.

 **Scott** : I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling

 **Scott** : Stiles I’m serious. He seemed really upset. He barely spoke to us the rest of the evening

 **Stiles** : Maybe he’s homophobic. We might need to kick him out of the pack!!

 **Scott** : …

 **Scott** : Dude

 **Stiles** : Ugh

 **Stiles** : Fine. I’ll talk to him.

 **Stiles** : Now stop texting me, I’m trying to sleep

 **Scott** : Yeah right.

 **Stiles** : FINE, jerk off then sleep. I’ll see you at school tomorrow

 **Scott** : I knew it

 **Stiles** : Shut up

 

* * *

 

“So,” Stiles says.

Derek lifts an eyebrow at him. “So,” he says, drawing out the vowel sound, then moving aside to let Stiles into the loft. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows; Stiles steps into a patch of it, watches the dust particles twirl.

“So you and Scott are together,” Derek says behind him, evenly.

“What?” Stiles says. He turns around. “What— no, what?”

“That’s what you’re here to tell me, right?” Derek says. “Because I saw you two. Last time. And you thought I was being weird about it.”

“I—”

“I’m not being weird about it,” Derek says, louder. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I wouldn’t—”

“Derek,” Stiles says. “It’s not— it’s not like that, okay, Scott and I are not _together_ , I—”

“I saw you two,” Derek says, and he sounds upset now. He probably realizes it too, because he kind of withdraws into himself, starts to scowl. He looks painfully much like the Derek Hale Stiles and Scott met almost two years ago, in the woods. Seeing him like this only highlights how much he’s changed over time. Stiles bites back a sigh.

“Lemme just put on some coffee and explain it, all right?” he says, and Derek continues to scowl until he adds, “Derek. Please?”

*

Derek can tell that Stiles is starting to get frustrated with him.

“No. You don’t understand. We’re… he’s like…” Stiles rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand, fingers crooked like the impatient little smile that flashes across his face. “It’s going to be really weird for you if I say ‘we’re so close he feels like a part of me’ now, isn’t it?”

Derek says, “So having sex with Scott is like masturbating to you.”

“Why do you keep getting stuck on the sex part?!” Stiles bursts out.

“Because that’s what this is _about_ ,” Derek says, confused. “Right? Or…” His stomach sinks. “Or are you in love with him?”

Stiles laughs that impatient laugh of his again. It sounds sharp, annoyed. “Christ, Derek. You just don’t understand. It’s not about the sex, it’s, it’s different, and it’s also not, not at _all_ — look, I spent half my life being infatuated with Lydia, and when she kissed me I felt nothing, all right? _Nothing_. I’ve never been in love. At this point I’m not even sure if I _can_ fall in love.”

Derek thinks about Paige, Kate, Jennifer. He thinks about kisses fraught with novelty, with a gravity beyond anything he’d ever known up to that point in his young and relatively unscathed life. He thinks about a simulation video he watched in high school, impossibly long ago, of tectonic plates crashing together. He thinks about fog.

Stiles says, “Scott’s the only thing I know. Have always known. Scott’s the only thing in my life I’m sure about.”

He says, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

*

“It’s all right, though,” Stiles says at some point during their choppy, laborious conversation. “We say no homo beforehand.”

Derek stays silent.

Stiles says, “That was a joke, dude.”

“I was aware of that,” Derek says tersely, after a beat.

“Just checking,” Stiles says. “Um, where were we?”

*

This is the most frustrating conversation Stiles has ever had in his life.

“Wait, you’re not seriously thinking Scott and I were banging every time Allison turned her back, right?” he says, incredulous. “We didn’t do anything during the time they were together.”

Derek says, “Oh. Okay.”

“It’s not like our friendship— we can function _without_ it, obviously.”

“You just,” Derek says. “Prefer not to.”

Stiles shrugs, makes his chin jut out defiantly. “Yeah, and so what? Scott’s good-looking, I’m good-looking, we both like to jerk off. Sometimes we do it together. Sometimes we jerk each other off and that’s even better. It’s not a big deal. Kira gets it.”

“Kira gets it,” Derek says.

“Yeah. Kira gets it. Said pics or it didn’t happen. Although she’d accept audio notes or videos, too.” He pauses. Derek, again, doesn’t laugh. “I’m _kidding_. Jesus.”

“Okay,” Derek says. He looks down at his hands, which, Stiles notices now, are clenched around the edge of the kitchen table so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. “So, you’re. Gay.”

Stiles shrugs. “Definitely not gay. Bi, maybe. I’m not sure yet. Is that the issue here?”

“Not an issue,” Derek says, too quickly. “Just wondering.”

His shoulders are drawn up high. He looks like he wants to say something else, is itching to say something else. Stiles waits, but Derek doesn’t say anything.

“What would you like to know?” he asks eventually. “Derek?”

Derek looks at him, face unreadable. “Can you give me a minute?”

Stiles nods. “Sure, yeah. Do you want me to—”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just…” Derek kind of half-smiles at him, wryly, and pushes himself up out of his chair. “I just need a minute to think.”

The moment Derek gets out of sight, Stiles slides his phone from his pocket. He’s got a message from Scott.

 **Scott** : How’s it going?

 **Stiles** : You there?

 **Scott** : Yeah

 **Stiles** : Did you know?

 **Scott** : Know what?

 **Stiles** : I think he might be gay. Or bi. Confused, at least. Wondering about it. Did you know?

 **Scott** : I had a feeling, yeah.

 **Stiles** : Is this why you told me to talk to him?

 **Scott** : Partly, yes.

Stiles hesitates.

 **Stiles** : Do you think maybe he likes me?

 **Scott** : I don’t know. I definitely think he’s attracted to you.

 **Stiles** : What do you think I should do?

 **Stiles** : Do you think I should do anything?

 **Stiles** : How would you feel if I did?

 **Scott** : Stiles

 **Scott** : Buddy

 **Scott** : Why do you think I told you to talk to him?

*

“I’ve never been in love,” Stiles’ voice comes from behind Derek’s back. “Never even been anything close to it, despite what I might’ve convinced myself of at the time. I have no idea what it might be like.”

Derek turns away from the window. “I know,” he says. “You just told me.”

“And I’m not going to hold back for you,” Stiles says, hotly, almost defensively. “With Scott, I mean. I’m not going to stop, or pretend— I can’t— I spent _months_ not being able to be myself, okay, I’m not about to—”

“I know,” Derek says. “I get it.”

“It’s,” Stiles says. “Scott is always going to be number one for me, you know. Always.”

“I know,” Derek says again.

“He’s my— he’s my brother, all right? He’s _always_ going to be number one. In pretty much every conceivable way. Not romantically, but in every other way. He’s…”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “I get it.”

“Do you?” Stiles looks at him. “Do you really?”

Derek thinks about gravity, about tectonic plates, about fog so thick you can’t see your own hands even when you’re holding them right in front of your eyes. He thinks about Stiles, not just unable but also _unwilling_ to consume Derek whole. He feels weirdly— relieved, he thinks, maybe. Yes, he feels relieved. Unpressured.

“Yeah,” he says. “I really think I do.”

When Kate asked him out on a date, before he knew, before everything, Derek had felt like he couldn’t breathe. Like she had sucked all air away, like she’d punched him in the lungs.

“Would you,” Stiles says, quietly, “would you like me to kiss you? Just to see how it. Just to see if it works for you? For us? Maybe?”

Derek looks at Stiles, his hands, his mouth, his eyes. It feels like something’s unwinding inside his chest; his lungs feel clear.

He clears his throat, says, “Yeah. Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> This brain child was co-conceived and lovingly co-fostered by the wonderful [frostyaussie](http://frostyaussie.tumblr.com).
> 
> Come find me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).


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